


Yellow Smoke and Ragged Claws

by Verlassen



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verlassen/pseuds/Verlassen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's spent most of her life hiding and running. Yet when nightmares that don't even belong to her drive her from her bed, she runs right into what she's been trying so hard to avoid.</p>
<p>Charles/OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Smoke and Ragged Claws

**Author's Note:**

> Charles/OC pairing
> 
> This has been in my folders forever, so I figured I'd give it a home here. Hope you enjoy!

That night I woke in a panic, a silent scream caught in my throat as I jolted upright in bed, my sheets balled in my fists. The air was quiet, save my gasping breaths and the sound of my own frantically beating heart drumming against my chest. With a heavy groan, I flopped backwards onto my pillow, raking a shaking hand through my now soaking hair.

Another nightmare. 

A screaming mother reaching towards me, and falling just short as I am dragged away, kicking and screaming, by the soldiers. Little shoes, children's shoes, piled higher than a house; the Nazis, without emotion, bringing wheelbarrows full of naked, icy bodies to the ditches; peaking around a corner to see the gas chambers and then retching, big, empty heaves because there’s nothing in my stomach to come up, nothing but acid.

Screaming, long and loud, until my throat is raw and sore and the only thing coming from me is empty air. There is pain, so much pain that I can’t tell where it’s coming from.. and then, a vast nothingness. Numb. These dreams belong to Erik, I know, but lately they’ve been finding a home in my psyche too.

I consider myself an empath before a telepath. Moments like these are as rare as they are unpleasant. I feel emotions, physical sensations, energies... not, whatever this is. The only other times I had felt this overwhelming download of a person’s memories was upon skin-to-skin contact. It was why I’d always been so careful, so reclusive; always wearing my gloves, where I was safe. Where no one could get to me.

... but Erik Lensherr was an anomaly. It was like his mind was constantly screeching, every dream banging against my mind like a battering ram against a door.

I turned my head to the left, letting it rest against the pillow as I stared at the plain walls, knowing Erik was sleeping just on the other side. It was quiet, eerily so, and I doubted he was even moving, the very picture of control. _You aren’t alone, Erik._ I felt my heart ache for him, could feel his pain even from this distance, throbbing against my skull. Tangible. Could almost taste his fear on my tongue. Bitter.  

I needed to get away from him. Run far away, where his tortured psyche couldn’t reach me. Selfish, I tell myself, hurt at my own thoughts for Erik’s sake.

Were I a better woman I would go to him, but I am not. I am just me. And what could I say to him? I am not Charles. Charles, with his smooth, knowing words and his calming tone, reassuring, prying; eyes seeing what even you yourself can’t, drinking up all that is you in just a few moments... No, I am not Charles, nor even half the telepath he is.

My face is wet, and I don’t know when I began to cry or why I am now; if it’s for Erik or Charles, myself, or perhaps all of us, but I do what I do best. Retreat. Run.

I don’t know where exactly I’m heading, but I watch my feet as they lead me to the kitchen as though with a mind of their own, and when my gaze wanders upwards, I am staring into those familiar blue eyes. Charles.

He’s stopped almost mid-stroll in the entrance way just a few short paces ahead of me, in a ridiculous red robe. I wonder for a moment if he’s surprised to see me here, but cast the thought out. Charles knows everything, always. His blue eyes seem to dance with laughter for a moment, and his face tilts, teasing.

I try to manage a grimace, thinking loudly _stay out of my head_. Though his features are marred with fatigue, his eyes still crinkle with genuine humour as he sends me a tired, boyish smile.

“Good evening,” he greets, seemingly ignorant, and we blink at each other a moment longer, before something seems to stretch the distance of us, and his gaze turns knowing.

I return the sentiment, a simple incline of my head, suddenly worried about frivolous things like my hair and my state of dress—and is there drool at the side of my mouth? Sleep in my eyes? I force my mind to quiet it’s traitorous tone, and Charles _seems_ none the wiser, but it’s hard to be sure as he moves around me, taking two cups from the cupboard and setting the kettle on the stove.

“Another dream, I imagine,” he’s saying, and I pause a moment to berate myself on my scattered thoughts.

“What?”

He turns from his position at the counter, regarding me with a brief smile before continuing his rifling through the cupboards, “I was saying I’ve been having the dreams too. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Something like that,” my cheeks warm and I duck my head to hide them, even though his back is turned to me, wondering why I’m embarrassed at all.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he adds knowingly, spooning honey out of a jar, “Erik’s mind can be rather loud. I came down because...”

He pauses a beat, turning to me again, this time with his hands grasping the ends of the counter, giving me his full attention, “Well, to see how you were holding up, really. I know how you must feel right now.”

He leaves me room to interrupt him, but I just stare blankly at him, unfeeling for a moment.

I watch as something on his face falters, and he runs a hand up through his hair. “It’s not easy, sometimes, seeing the things we do. As much of a blessing as a curse, really—”

“Did you come down here to check on me, or to confide in me, Charles?” 

I didn’t mean for it to sound so.. _scathing._ But he’s walking on thin ice, as far as I’m concerned. Treading too close to my tightly wound secrets and fears. I hate my powers. Hate what they make me. Hate the things I’ve experienced and the things I’ve seen. I don’t want to talk about this. Not even with Charles.

“Guilty on both charges, I suppose..” he offers, shrugging bashfully, and for a moment I’m not sure if either of us knows whether it was meant as a statement or a question.

“In any case,” he resumes, “I was thinking about you, and your—” his eyes drift to my shockingly bare hands, which I hide under the long, draping sleeves of my sweater in a moment of panic. His eyebrows raise momentarily, “— _gloves,_ and how you usually try to keep the, em, _effects_ of your mutation to a minimum, and how these dreams these past few nights have been very forced—”

It’s a rare moment, I think, watching Charles _almost_ stumble over his words. “— I just thought, perhaps these past few nights have been particularly hard for you, and well, my maid always said there’s one surefire cure for everything—”

“—Tea? ” he grins, looking sheepish as his head tilts in the most adorable, silly way. My heart is hammering away again, but for a different reason this time. It’s been a long time since someone genuinely went out of there way to do.. whatever this is, even if it’s just as simple as tea on the surface.

The edges of my mind tingle in warning, and I retreat immediately, reciting the only poem I know over and over again in the forefront of my mind, filling it with clutter.

“You’ve already set out a mug for me..” I mumble, unimpressed, “that’s a little presumptuous isn’t it?”

He grins, eyes dancing, “but you _do_ want the tea, don’t you?”

“Why bother asking if you already know?” I huff, the rush of air blowing my bangs away from my face.

He taps the corner of his head teasingly, but we both know he’s not getting anything from me other than a lengthy poem about a man with social anxieties. I am diligent in my recital of it. I don’t want him to feel the soft, tender feeling seeping lethargically through me when he looks at me _like that;_ it’s the oddest thing, how a feeling can be so powerful and rushing like a wind, and yet seem to simmer gently all at the same time. Sometimes it feels like all the little expressions he makes, the little ways that he moves—that impish tilt of his lips, there, and that tired, congenially sweet look in his eyes—add up to this gigantic suckerpunch that goes deep, too deep.. like a root that wormed way down and now by the time I’ve noticed it’s too late to pull it out. Unpleasant and threatening to drown me, and yet....

And yet, that burning glow that’s always centred around my chest like a coil sings such a sweet song. It makes me weak, and he can’t know.

When I groan, my voice is muffled. I have my head in my hands, I realize, wondering at my slouched position over the table. When did I sit down? When did my mind get so _foggy?_

 

_Let_ _us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky_

_Like a patient etherized upon a table;_

_Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,_

_The muttering retreats_

_Of restless nights—_

 

I’ve barely begun my poem for the fifth time when a hand touches mine, skin against skin. It’s only for a moment, just a second, before I tear the link away, eyes large and fearful, lips quivering. Charles is peering at me, his face close, too close, his eyes warm, too warm; open and yet unreadable, even and yet curious, patient and yet demanding.

One moment was all it took, though. One moment to feel his mind, pressed against my own and then folding in. One moment of torture and wonder and warmth and clarity; one moment of Charles begging his mother for attention as she pours over her research—”not _now_ Charles, go and play”—one moment of aching loneliness and a little face staring at itself in the mirror, _why am I different?_ One moment and one lifetime, all at once.

I’m watching him in rapt horror, with bated breath. There are no walls to shuffle behind, no holes to hide in... my defences are scattered. His mind is against mine with so much force that there is no space to feel anything but him— _breathe,_ his voice is neigh but a gentle command, and I do, deep withering sounds as I try to steady my nerves.

The moment has passed but the unmistakable rightness of his mind inside of mine remains.

“I’m sorry,” we say together after a beat, both unsure.

His smile warms me again, and I am achingly careful with my thoughts. Careful to force the swelling, desperate feeling deep into the recesses of my mind. _Please, please_ _don’t find me out_ , I plead to myself, and berate myself, know I now have a captive audience of one. I begin again painstakingly reciting my poem, and watch Charles’ expression falter.

“As much as I like the sound of you reciting T.S Eliot, I’d prefer you didn’t do that right now,” his voice is low, one I imagine you’d use to sooth a startled animal, “you don’t have to hide away.”

His hand is moving slowly across the surface of the table; cautious, as if not to spook me. It’s with some humour that I imagine him reaching to pet a creature that might equally bite or flee at any moment.

“I understand,” he says, his voice floating over me, “you don’t have to be frightened.”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but in a lapse of self control, I let him reach for my hand. Let him take it in his own. I shut my eyes against the onslaught of- of- _Charles._ There are no other words for the complete immersion of a person.

I barely feel his thumb brushing over my knuckles, or his finger sweep against the sweaty skin of my forehead, pushing hair aside. He is murmuring something, but I don’t hear the words until they are in my mind and not just against my skin—

_Don’t push me away. Let me in._

It’s easier said than done. It’s overwhelming, and I have little control.

_I understand,_ he says again, in little more than a whisper, and I know that he does. The memory of a little, frightened boy, gasping for breath in the schoolyard as hundreds of thoughts overlap and scream at him from all directions, tells me he understands better than anyone else.

_It can be overwhelming. But it’s just you and I, yes? You’re safe._

I am a selfish creature, I tell myself harshly. He has given everything to me in a few moments, but I am still clawing at the ends of my restraint as if they are sheets to be stolen from the other side of the bed.

There is laughter in his voice when he says _open your eyes_ and I do. Because how can I not, when his voice is so full and soft and lovely?

The world is quiet and still again when our gazes lock. He’s folded half across the table, his hand resting over my own, his other now resting on his knee.

He is grinning in that quiet, knowing way, but seems to decide to let me in on his secret. “We’ve been like this for several minutes.”

I stare at him dumbly. His grin widens. “Our hands have been touching for several minutes now,” he clarifies, “and you’re okay. I’m okay.”

_You haven’t had a panic attack; you haven’t lashed out at my mind. We’re both safe._

I am stunned into silence. His skin is warm against mine, and his hands are the soft skin of one of privilege. It’s been so long since I’ve felt someones skin. It’s not fear that grips me now, but something sweeter, something that flutters hard above my ribcage. It makes me want to run and hide all the same, but Charles’ hand squeezes mine.

I gaze up at him through my lashes, wary, and find his eyes that are usually so open, unreadable. He is closer than I remember. So close I feel his breath along my skin. My muscles relax under the gentle coax of his mind, my eyes flutter momentarily.

There is a heaviness in the air, unfamiliar to me. I’ve never been this close to a man before, never in memories that are my own.

The kettle erupts with a whiny chime and we’re startled apart. Charles’ hand drifts past mine as he rises to get it.

I slump against my chair, exhausted, frightened. There’s no telling what he’s seen in my mind, what he’s heard... what he’s _felt_. That’s what frightens me the most. That he’s felt what I feel towards him. That he’s felt the way his smile warms me to my core, felt the tender way his eyes melt me. That he’s seen the way I stare after him sometimes, eyes heavy with ardor, yearning to be someone I’m not. I’m scared.

He knows, I’m sure, when he glances back at me for the briefest moment as he fills our cups with steaming liquid.

“I didn’t mean for you to feel any of that. I was never going to— I wasn’t planning on—” I’m babbling now, and I settle for a feeble, croaked out, “I’m sorry.”

There is familiar laughter in his eyes when he pulls my fingers around the cup he brings for me, and it cuts me in a way I can’t describe. He’s laughing at me.

When our fingers brush against each other, this time, there is no rush of memories, no overwhelming download of all that is Charles, just that familiar glow, slow and steady as if I am the cup and he is the tea. We look, together, at the place where we’re touching, but I’m slow and shy to meet his gaze again. He’s patient.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” his honeyed voice assures me, “do you trust me?”

It’s a loaded question, but I know that I can’t refuse him, and so does he. His hand guides my shaking one to his forehead.

“See for yourself,” he says with a mirthful wink, and leans back to take a sip of his tea as though an untrained telepath meandering about his mind is no big deal.

I gape at him, but he motions me to continue, his smile knowing, and.. something else that I can’t quite name.

Slowly, I press forward into uncharted waters, careful, thinking to myself _be like Charles, be like Charles, don’t hurt him, God don’t hurt him, be gentle, unobtrusive, warm, think of his eyes..._

My eyes are open, and I can see his saccharine smile melt into something even sweeter, endearing.. he must know that it descends straight to my belly, pools against me, heavy; he shifts closer, but I close my eyes to him, concentrating..

He’s beautiful. Truly. Gentle innocence, but not naivety. If I had to attribute him to a colour it would be the pure, calming blue of his eyes. Being in his mind is like swimming, floating in a wide open endless _blue._

I don’t know where I’m going, what I’m looking for, but Charles draws up something to help me along.

It’s me. The emotion that follows is so clean and undiluted that I’m not sure who it comes from, but in that moment I’m lost. There is a desperate sort of yearning, pining against my ribcage, and the open, wrapping feeling of adoration, covering me in a moment like a warm blanket. There is something sweet and warm and gentle and ... _oh_ it’s not just in my head, it’s against my lips.

Hands in my hair, lips against my own, Charles is taking his time again, mouth soft and pliant against mine. I gasp against him when his hands brings me closer, and his lips depart to trail along the corner of my mouth, my cheeks, my nose, forehead, little sweet kisses that make my face hurt with the force of my grin.

Charles laughs pleasantly, that warm honeyed sound, and when I open my eyes he is so close, his eyes so near that his nose rubs against mine teasingly.

“Perhaps tea wasn’t my only intention when I followed you downstairs…” he admits with a falsely sheepish expression. My eyes are having a hard time staying open, though, my mind drawing blank, too distracted by the draw of soft fingers against my scalp, and the feeling of his mind against my own; a warm wave ebbing and swaying.

“I was also hoping to convince you to come back to bed with me,” he said quietly, nearly vulnerable, as his fingertips draw strands of clumped hair away from my sweaty forehead. To anyone else it might have sounded like a proposition, but from my place, tangled as one, unable to tell his mind from my own, he doesn’t need to explain further.

_You don’t have to face the nightmares alone anymore._

When he rises from his seat and holds out his hand to me, there is a surreal moment I can’t properly explain, though I suppose I don’t need to try to find the words anymore. Charles understands, after all, and my palm feels so right in his as he draws me gently alongside him, hand in hand.


End file.
